An Iconic Image
by MLaw
Summary: Illya sits alone at home with his thoughts on a snowy January 7th. Originally posted on section7mfu Live Journal for the PicFic Tuesday challenge. # 14 in the Illya series


Illya Kuryakin woke up in his own bed for once. It was cold and snowing heavily in New York City and he indulged himself by turning the heat up just a little.

The radiator thumped and clanged as the steam rose, and in no time his small apartment was cozy.

Wrapping himself in his worn but familiar black robe that had seen better days, he stepped into a pair of new slippers his partner had given him as a Christmas gift. Napoleon apologized that his present wasn't something better, like a new robe, but there just hadn't been time for shopping as he and the Russian had been sent on one assignment after another until their heads felt like they were spinning.

"Mmm, if it's Tuesday, this must be Rome," Napoleon had at one point quipped, and Illya nearly agreed, but in actual fact it was Belgium and a Friday. That was when they both knew it was time to come in out of the cold.

They arrived in New York on Saturday, filed their reports and scurried off into the night, Napoleon to do his Christmas shopping, though it was now January. Illya went home to bed, deciding he would purchase his partner's gift another day...

That day passed as did another and another, until he finally made it to Gimbels in Herald Square and bought Napoleon a new silk tie. Nothing earth shattering, but then what does one get for a man who really has all he needs. Clothing would please his partner no matter what.

Illya tightened the terry cloth belt, seeing nothing wrong with his robe, as it was still serviceable, though he very much appreciated the slippers since he didn't own a pair. In Russia, when the winter months came, you kept your boots or shoes on most of the time...

It seemed this year the usual truce with THRUSH hadn't been in effect for the month of December as well as into the New Year, and in truth he was grateful for this overdue respite.

A call had come from headquarters the night before, telling him to stay home for once. There was enough staff on hand, and nothing pressing at the moment as the snow was bringing life in the city to a standstill.

Illya walked into the kitchen, preparing a pot of tea, and poured some Cheerios into a bowl, but cursed when he remembered there was no milk. He shrugged and began to eat the cereal dry. Glancing up while he munched away, he looked at the date on the calendar thumbtacked to the kitchen wall...January 7th, reminding him it was Orthodox Christmas.

Not sure how he made the connection, he suddenly remembered he had a can of sliced peaches somewhere, and after finding and opening it, he felt experimental and dumped the lot on the bowl of cereal. He dug in with a spoon, finding it satisfactory.

His thoughts drifted back to the date on the calendar...

Though outwardly he claimed not to believe in God, deep down he really did, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone, especially his partner. Napoleon was always after him about celebrating Christmas, and trying to engage him in theological discussion. He could hold his own against the American, as he'd read the bible quite a bit, as it was a book of course. After a while the discussions began to grate, and Napoleon finally sensing that, stopped probing about the Russian's beliefs or apparent lack of them.

Illya indulged his partner when it came the secular celebration of December 25th by getting Napoleon a gift. But this was a recent occurrence and only after his grandfathers watch and mother's letter had been found accidentally by the American and given as a well intentioned gift. Napoleon claimed it to be some sort of miracle, and secretly he had to agree as the odds of finding the exact time piece were astronomical. The fact that it and the letter still existed intact were up there in the odds as well.*

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Illya smiled, wiggling his toes and feeling the soft lambswool of his new slippers warming his tired feet as he walked to the sofa, where he intended just to relax. He finished his tea, as well as the cereal, deciding to just be lazy, and laid back, closing his eyes. Somewhere out of the recesses of his mind, images from his childhood began to fill his head... going to church at St. Andrews in Kyiv with his family on Christmas Eve...the holy supper, his gifts from Ded Moroz and the last Christmas they celebrated, when his grandmother gave him the pocket watch, his mother's voice...and so much more.*

Illya recalled the priest Father Demya. The man with the long white beard and kindly voice who held a special place in his heart. Not long after Christmas, his family had given shelter to the fleeing priest. The Red Army had closed St. Andrews, and the brothers, monks and priests all fled, as they'd been told they would be sent to the gulag. Some of them didn't escape, but Father Demya did and he decided to return to his people, the Cossacks, living in the town of Zaporoche on an island in the Dneiper River.

There he would hide, and minister to the remnants of the Zaporozhian who still lived there, though it was mostly the infermed, women and children. The men were off, preparing to fight for Joseph Stalin.

The war with Germany was fast approaching, and weighed heavily upon everyone's minds. Everyone hid behind their doors, not offering the priest sanctuary while on his journey to Zaporoche, fearing reprisals from the Red Army, everyone except the Kuryakin family.

The priest stayed with them but one night, and the stories he told of the Cossacks and their ways with horses fascinated young Illya. He never forgot it, or the gentleness of the man. There was a special place in Illya's heart for Father Demya even after all these years.

A sadness suddenly filled him as he thought of his time spent with the Kubanskiye Kаzaki, just before he was to report to his naval assignment, his mandatory tour of duty as a submariner. He remembered the Red Army coming in the night, slaughtering those Cossack people and their horses. **

"The icon..." That thought rushed into his head as he sat up. He'd found a small icon that day so long ago on the steppes, among the dead, and kept it all these years as a remembrance of the cruelty of his government against yet another innocent people, and not for religious reasons. That was what Illya told himself as he sometimes considered himself closer to an agnostic than an atheist. He had a religious upbringing until the age of eight, but having the State tell him there was no God, left him with a duality of conscience.

"Where was it?" He asked himself. He'd kept the icon secreted for years, along with a few other indulgences that his superiors would not have been pleased he had.

Illya went to his closet, and there in the back was a small weathered cardboard box, still taped up from when he first came to America. He'd never reopened it.

He tore back the dried tape and pulled the flaps open and began digging inside. First he pulled out his red Petrushka puppet, the one he secretly bought at an illegal stand one Christmas in Gorky, as it reminded him of one from his childhood.*** Next he removed a bible printed in Cyrillic, a set of Matryoshka dolls, and after digging beneath a few other bits and bobs, he found the hand-painted icon at the bottom of the box.

He stood with it in his hand, walking over to the bedroom window to look at it in a little better light. There was a piece of paper he'd forgotten about, rubber-banded to the back of it. And he recalled then, it was notes he'd written once after researching the portrait.

The image, painted in gold, was of Ignatius Brianchaninov with scenes from his life surrounding him and a beautiful example of a 20th century icons. Though not officially a saint, the Kazaki still venerated him, believing him to be one.

Illya had become curious and investigated this man Ignatius Brianchaninov as best he could and now he re-read his notes.

Born Dimitri Alexandrovich Brianchaninov to a wealthy landowning family in the 1800's. and was educated at a prestigious school in St. Petersburg. He was successful in his studies, but found himself dissatisfied with life and in 1827 while in the military, he fell seriously ill and left the army, turning to a life of prayer.

He later took religious vows, receiving the monastic name of Ignatius. Soon after he was ordained a priest. and rose rapidly to the rank of archimandrite and at a young age was appointed superior of the Maritime Monastery of St. Sergius in St. Petersburg.

Twenty six years later he was consecrated Bishop of the Caucasus and the Black Sea, but he retired after only four years, devoting himself to more spiritual endeavours and writing a large amount of material regarding spiritual life and prayer. Since he was not of Cossack extraction, Illya concluded that it was his writings that had attracted them to him. The Christian Cossacks had an unorthodox way of looking at the Orthodox religion or perhaps it was because there were many Cossacks serving under Brianchaninov when he was in the military and his spirituality affected them...

Illya had tried once to find some of the written works of Ignatius Brianchaninov, but his writings done for those in the monastic life, like all things religious, were banned. The young Russian dared not continue his research, lest it bring undue attention to him by his fellow agents, and superiors.

He glanced at the back of the paper as he held it in the light, seeing the quote he'd written from Ignatius Brianchaninov, and remembered that it was the priest, Father Demya who first quoted it to him as a child. At the time it meant little to him as he was so young, but now after all these years the words clawed at the soul he'd locked away for so long.

"He who is careless about prayer is careless about his salvation; he who quits prayer renounces his salvation..."

The Russian laid back on his bed propping himself up with his pillow, and the icon balanced on his bent knees. The images of childhood Christmases, his family, St. Andrews and Father Demya flooded his head again, and for once he unlocked the door to his heart.

"Vo imyaOttsa, Syna i Svyatogo Dukha" He blessed himself, as he had been taught as a child, and for the first time in many years, he let himself talk briefly to God, saying a prayer for all those around him, whom he loved so dearly, but had lost so long ago to the angel of death, Miykal, the bringer of souls.

Illya dozed off, holding the precious icon to his chest. Perhaps it was a symbol of a religious belief to him after all...?

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* ref to "Three wishes~Christmas Past, . Three wishes~ Christmas Future" .

**ref to Chapter 20 "Randomness of Life" (and soon to be posted long fic : "Zaporoche.")

***ref to "Petrushka"


End file.
